


present tenses

by novajanna



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-10
Updated: 2010-06-10
Packaged: 2018-10-31 20:30:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10906932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novajanna/pseuds/novajanna
Summary: Johnny wakes up one morning and feels like he's sixteen again, like it's winter, snow falling softly outside, like he has to get to the rink right this very minute. It startles him, gives him a pang of terror that he's late for practice; he hates being late, especially on cold mornings when his fingers never fully thaw.But then he realizes that he's not sixteen, he's twenty-eight, and the light streaming through the windows doesn't have that sharpness of the winter sun, and he's retired now.





	present tenses

  
Johnny wakes up one morning and feels like he's sixteen again, like it's winter, snow falling softly outside, like he has to get to the rink right this very minute. It startles him, gives him a pang of terror that he's late for practice; he hates being late, especially on cold mornings when his fingers never fully thaw.

But then he realizes that he's not sixteen, he's twenty-eight, and the light streaming through the windows doesn't have that sharpness of the winter sun, and he's retired now. He doesn't have to be at the rink until later, and it's a different rink, anyway, a nicer one with a zamboni that actually works and boards that are still more white than yellow. It still has that rink smell, though - sweat and rubber and that strange scent from the little heaters above the stands – everything sharpened by the cold.

He rolls over and stretches his hand out over the other side of the bed, smoothing down the creases in the sheets. The covers are a mess and Johnny frowns at them for a second before remembering that Stéphane’s here, and Stéphane always insists on sharing a bed, even though Johnny had made up the spare room before Stéphane arrived.

When he listens, he can hear the sound of Stéphane gliding softly across the kitchen floor, the scritch of socks against hardwood. Either he's being quiet, trying not to wake Johnny up, or he's going through a routine.

Johnny rolls out of bed and takes a moment to settle on his feet, feeling the tug in his muscles, the way his ankles creak a little as they readjust to his weight. When he starts walking there's a slight twinge at his hip, too, and Johnny presses his hand against it idly, an old, familiar gesture.

He walks down the hallway and sees Stéphane standing, going through what looks like a footwork sequence, mug in his hand. He stops and takes a sip of coffee before tucking his hair behind his ear and setting the mug down on the kitchen table. Johnny leans against the wall and crosses his arms, watching Stéphane.

Stéphane moves away from the table to give himself more room and throws himself into an axel, his feet slipping a little in his big woollen socks as he pushes off. Stéphane always wears socks to bed, even during the summer, and the way they hand off his toes and make him stumble a little on his landing makes Johnny smile. Stéphane is always so graceful, even like this - sweatpants loose around his hips, stretching his arms out from the pale grey shirt he always wears to bed - even as he loses his footing. When he turns he sees Johnny and smiles wide, and Johnny smiles back.

"Was that choreography for today?" Johnny takes a sip of coffee and leans against the table, shifting his weight to his other hip.

"No, no," Stéphane says, fluttering a hand a little and going to get another mug from the kitchen. "Something old, from one exhibition a very long time ago." He sits down and slides the new mug to Johnny. "That one has just the milk, how you like it." Johnny hands him the first mug and picks up the second, blowing against the surface and looking down at Stéphane. Stéphane is watching Johnny's movements as though he doesn't even realize he's doing it, but shakes his head and grins when he notices Johnny’s gaze. "I have no new choreography for today; just the same things as before."

"So boring," Johnny complains, but he likes watching Stéphane teach. Stéphane is naturally good with people, charming in a way that always comes across as genuine.

Stéphane just grins at him again. "I would like pancakes for breakfast. With real maple syrup."

Johnny rolls his eyes. "Just because we're retired doesn't mean we don't need to keep our figures."

"Who are you keeping it for?" Stéphane asks, and he seems genuinely curious.

Johnny almost says 'Whoever', because some days he really doesn't think it matters, at this point. Someone who'll love him. "Myself," he says instead.

"Then I will eat all your pancakes," Stéphane says. "But I think maybe yourself would be very happy for some pancakes, also."

It's Stéphane who actually makes the batter as Johnny has his second cup of coffee, leaning against the counter and watching Stéphane mix. Stéphane had bought himself a new wooden spoon at a farmer's market a week ago, one made out of maple, the colour of melted butter. "It is hand-made!" Stéphane had said, delighted, and Johnny had pointed out that it needed to be carefully hand washed every time Stéphane used it, and also that Johnny had enough wooden spoons. But Stéphane had bought it anyway, had almost cradled in his arms as they walked home. Stéphane had taken the card that the man had given him, promising to look him up again, possibly for some salad tongs, or maybe another spoon.

Johnny makes the pancakes, because Stéphane always gets too excited and undercooks them, and Johnny hates uncooked pancake batter. Stéphane sits on the counter and swings his legs a little, even though Johnny keeps giving him stern glares as Stéphane’s heels tap against the cabinet doors.

Stéphane has a stack of pancakes to Johnny's two. Johnny ignores Stéphane’s smug look as he puts a small pool of maple syrup on the corner of his plate.

***

Johnny's coaching a couple of younger kids who aren't anything terribly spectacular but could maybe make it with a lot of hard work. Johnny thinks that if he sticks with it long enough, someone fabulous will eventually come to him, but for the time being he's just enjoying coaching. Stéphane is choreographing for a couple of girls on the juniors circuit, and sometimes Johnny finds himself just watching Stéphane show off particular sequences or spins; he has always loved watching Stéphane skate, even when he was trying hard to hate Stéphane’s easy grace on the ice, the way he always looked like it was a joy to be there. Stéphane has always seemed untouched by the nerves that plague Johnny even now, nights where he wakes up from nightmares about programs that went horribly wrong.

On the way back to the apartment they stop at a little grocery store, just to pick up some essentials; in the evening Stéphane likes to have tea as they sit in front of the television, and they used up the last of the milk that morning.

"You love strawberries, no?" Stéphane says, holding up two punnets. Johnny has a flash of one day on a tour when they'd stopped at a roadside vendor and picked up a box of wild strawberries to share, and how Stéphane’s lips had been stained red afterwards, a bit of juice in the corner of his mouth that Johnny had wanted to lick off.

Johnny nods and forgets to ask how much the punnets are as he puts them in the basket.

***

"I do not like your curtains very much," Stéphane says later. They're sprawled out on the couch with an old CSI playing on low volume on the television, and Stéphane has his head on Johnny's shoulder, arms looped around Johnny's waist. It's too hot out for them to be this close together, and Johnny doesn't have air conditioning in his apartment, but Johnny doesn’t shrug him off. He'll have to find the fans later, now that the warm weather has finally arrived.

Johnny shifts and his shirt rides up a little, Stéphane’s arm sliding against his stomach. "I don't like them either," Johnny agrees, and tries to remember why he ever bought those curtains in the first place. "I'll buy some more this weekend." He looks around the room and thinks about how musty it feels, how everything feels a little grimy even though he cleans vigorously. "Maybe I'll repaint, too."

"I will come with you." Stéphane even manages to sound excited, like the prospect of picking out paint samples fills him with glee. "Maybe a nice blue."

"Not royal," Johnny says, because that would be too dark.

"No," Stéphane agrees, and tilts his head to look up at Johnny. "Something light. Perhaps like a robin's egg, very delicate? We could throw paint and make brown spots across! It would be very organic, very natural."

"No," Johnny says resolutely, and Stéphane just laughs and nuzzles his nose into Johnny's neck, arms tightening in a brief hug, skin sticking to Johnny's and plastering his shirt to his back.

***

"We're painting the apartment," Johnny says, pulling at a loose thread on the cuffs of his old jeans and watching Stéphane roll out some more plastic sheeting across the floor.

"The both of you?" Patti asks, and Johnny can hear the other question in her voice.

"Stéphane’s helpful," Johnny replies, which isn't an answer at all, but it earns him a grin from Stéphane.

"Okay," Patti replies. "But wasn't he only going to stay for a little while? Is he still looking for his own place?"

It's been almost two months, and Johnny isn't sure if Stéphane was ever really looking in the first place. "Sort of."

"Alright," Patti says slowly. "Well, best of luck with the painting."

"Thank you," Johnny says. "Love you."

"Goodbye, Patti!" Stéphane calls from across the room, and Patti's laughing as she says goodbye.

***

“May I make space in a drawer?” Stéphane asks, voice loud in the darkness. It jolts Johnny back from the edge of sleep.

“...yes?”

“Thank you!” Stéphane says, and tangles their legs together under the covers.

“You need to cut your toenails,” Johnny murmurs, already drifting off.

***

Stéphane spends an afternoon organizing Johnny’s closet and dresser so that he has some space for his things; the spare room stays empty. Johnny doesn’t notice until he goes to get his favourite headband and finds the feather crushed, pushed into the side of the drawer so that Stéphane could fit his collection of scarves.

Johnny picks up the headband and goes to where Stéphane is sitting on the couch, flipping through a Vogue. He doesn’t say anything, just puts the headband down on the table and glares, arms crossed.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Stéphane says, taking notice of the sad bent feather dangling from the band.

“It’s not the only one, either,” Johnny snaps, even though that’s not really true and he’s sure he has a spare of this one in the back of his closet somewhere.

“I did not realize-” Stéphane starts again, and he’s put down the magazine now, leaving it on the couch.

“You _never_ do,” Johnny says, and then adds, for good measure, “and you have too many scarves.” He leaves the headband on the table and walks back to his room, footsteps just light enough that it can’t be considered stomping.

***

It’s a rainy day and Johnny is itching to get out of the apartment, so he goes to the spare room and waits until Stéphane looks up. “Oui?” Stéphane looks a little wary but also defensive, and Johnny is abruptly tired of being angry at him, even though it’s only been three days.

“Let’s go shopping,” Johnny says, and for a moment he’s worried that Stéphane won’t agree.

“D’accord,” Stéphane says, and he stretches as he stands, arching his back. The sleeves of his shirt are wrinkled and bunch up around his shoulders, and the shirt rides up enough that a strip of skin is visible as he moves. Johnny walks out of the room, knowing that Stéphane will follow.

They end up in IKEA, because if there’s one thing Johnny loves, it’s new ways of organizing things. Still, being in IKEA always feels a little bit like being trapped in an endless maze, even if it’s one that smells like cinnamon buns.

“That smell is so lovely!” Stéphane proclaims, looking around the bedding section.

“We’ll get you one at the end,” Johnny says, and then mutters, “If we ever figure out how to get out of here.”

“This bed is so soft.” Stéphane stretches out on a huge bed, eyes closed and a truly blissful expression on his face. He circles his fingers around Johnny’s wrist loosely and holds them there for a second before tugging pointedly. Johnny glances around the display area and when he looks back at Stéphane, Stéphane is looking at him with only one eye open. “No one is watching, Johnny,” and he sounds almost chastising.

Johnny sighs and lies down next to Stéphane, staring straight up at the awful fluorescent lighting. It reminds him of school and rink change rooms and he shuts his eyes and listens to Stéphane breathing beside him, hand still holding firm to Johnny’s wrist.

Stéphane tangles their fingers together, and when Johnny opens his eyes, Stéphane is very close to him, hair hanging in his face as he props himself up on an elbow. “I think you should buy this bed,” he says.

“I like my bed,” Johnny retorts, but it doesn’t come out as annoyed as he intends.

Stéphane seems to consider that for a moment, then grins down at Johnny. “Me, too.” Johnny doesn’t have an answer for that, and they just pause, looking at each other. Stéphane squeezes Johnny’s hand and Johnny looks at Stéphane's lips and that soft, fond smile on his face and thinks of all the times this hasn’t happened.

“Can I help you, gentlemen?” a salesperson asks, an older woman with a slightly disgruntled look on her face. Johnny entertains the idea of kissing Stéphane just for the sake of pissing her off, but thinks better of it.

“Yes!” Stéphane says. “I would like to buy this bed!”

“You would?” The woman seems surprised, but maybe that’s only at Stéphane’s enthusiasm. Johnny thinks that IKEA sucks the life out of most people.

“No,” Johnny says, and Stéphane pouts. “Where would you put it?”

“In your room,” Stéphane responds, trying his best winning smile.

“We’ve been over this,” Johnny says wearily, and maybe he read the salesperson wrong, because now she’s looking at them almost fondly. Johnny disentangles their hands and rolls off the bed as delicately as he can, ignoring the twinges in his muscles as he has to drop a little to get to the floor. The bed is ridiculously large.

“As you like, Johnny,” Stéphane says sadly, but he thanks the salesperson profusely for her time and sets off into the maze once again.

***

Johnny bought Stéphane his own set of drawers, intending to set it up in the guest bedroom as incentive for Stéphane to actually move in there. They are a ridiculously bright shade of blue, and Johnny thinks they are probably meant to be for kids, but Stéphane loves them.

They spend an entire morning trying to assemble them but by the time they’re both hungry enough for lunch, neither of them has the patience to continue. Stéphane looks sorrowfully on as Johnny puts the instructions, the useless little tools, and the half-finished set of drawers in the guest bedroom and shuts the door firmly behind him. “Another day, maybe,” he says, though he thinks that day will probably never come.

After lunch Johnny reorganizes his closet, and gives Stéphane a quarter of the room. He moves the scarves far away from his headbands. Stéphane is sitting on the bed and singing along with his iPod, some slow song about starry eyes and lightning, grinning widely at Johnny whenever he looks over.

***

Tanith calls one night when Stéphane and Johnny are watching So You Think You Can Dance, and it’s been so long since he talked to her that Johnny is willing to miss the bad auditions. He sits in the hallway and listens to Stéphane’s running commentary in the background.

“He’s still there?” Tanith asks, like maybe Stéphane is a one night stand who just never got the hint the morning after.

“Yeah,” Johnny says, and glances around the corner to see Stéphane flailing his arms around as he says something about lines. Stéphane’s a hand talker even when he’s just talking to himself.

“And you aren’t feeling...cramped?” Tanith asks cautiously.

Johnny does like his space, but “No,” he says resolutely. Because he isn’t. Stéphane is just...there.

“So when did he officially move in?”

“He hasn’t,” Johnny responds too quickly and then abruptly realizes how absurd that sounds. “I don’t know.”

“Are you seeing each other?”

Johnny doesn’t want to have this discussion. “Well, yeah, Tan, I see him every day.”

“Johnny,” Tanith says, and he can feel her glare through the phone line.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because we aren’t.” He pauses, looking for a better explanation. “We don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Are you just being purposefully irritating, or-”

“No, Johnny,” Tanith interrupts, and her voice is soothing. “I mean it – why aren’t you? Why don’t you?”

“I’ll get back to you on that,” Johnny says after a long moment, and Tanith moves on to talking about some amazing costume she dreamed about the other night.

***

Stéphane makes Johnny angel food cake with strawberries and whipped cream for his birthday, but they eat it for breakfast, sitting cross-legged in bed as the light shutters in through the blinds.

“This is amazing,” Johnny says.

“I know,” Stéphane says, and then reaches out with his thumb to brush a bit of whipped cream from the corner of Johnny’s mouth, licking it off his finger.

“You should move in,” Johnny says.

“If you would like,” Stéphane says carefully, and Johnny takes another bite of cake to avoid answering, just nods instead. “Okay,” Stéphane says, more to himself, and they finish their breakfast in silence.

***

That night they go out and have Johnny’s birthday party at Paris’ apartment, because Paris loves throwing parties and Johnny hates worrying about the cleanup afterwards. The thought makes him feel old - _twenty-nine_ , his brain reminds him, loud and clear – and he’s exhausted by the time he and Stéphane get back to the apartment.

“I’m old, Stéphane,” Johnny says, slumping against the couch. Stéphane runs a soothing hand through his hair and gives him a half-hug. His breath smells like some fruity drink; Stéphane always just picks the brightest colours.

“I have a surprise for you,” Stéphane says, and Johnny realizes that Stéphane hasn’t given him a birthday present yet. Stéphane hauls him up with his arm around Johnny’s waist and tugs him to the guest bedroom. He opens the door with his free hand and grins at Johnny as he surveys the room.

The drawers are finished, if a little lopsided, and Stéphane’s moved all of his stuff into the room. “Oh,” Johnny says, and Stéphane’s face falls.

“You do not like? I thought perhaps...you would like your own space back?”

“No, Stéphane,” Johnny starts, but he doesn’t quite know what to say. “You didn’t have to,” he finishes, but that’s not really it either.

“Oh,” Stéphane says, and when Johnny turns to look at him, Stéphane presses a quick kiss to the corner of Johnny’s mouth, hand just a light pressure at the small of Johnny’s back.

“Stéphane,” Johnny breathes, and Stéphane moves his hands to cup Johnny’s face and kisses him again, properly, thumbs sweeping across Johnny’s cheekbones. Johnny tucks his fingers into the waistband of Stéphane’s jeans and presses himself close.

“You are very drunk,” Stéphane says, leaning back, and Johnny just pulls him in again.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, because he doesn’t feel like waiting until he’s completely sober to have Stéphane finally touching him with intent behind it. “You can move your things back tomorrow.”

“D’accord,” Stéphane breathes against his lips, and Johnny turns and tugs Stéphane down the hall back to their room.  


**Author's Note:**

> Written first and foremost for [](http://extemporally.livejournal.com/profile)[**extemporally**](http://extemporally.livejournal.com/), who thinks I don't appreciate her OTP enough.
> 
> Also written for the cliché challenge at [](http://skategreat.livejournal.com/profile)[**skategreat**](http://skategreat.livejournal.com/) , prompt [#93](http://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%2393) \- domestic bliss.
> 
> Many thanks to [](http://hapakitsune.livejournal.com/profile)[**hapakitsune**](http://hapakitsune.livejournal.com/) for the awesome beta, and to [](http://lemniciate.livejournal.com/profile)[**lemniciate**](http://lemniciate.livejournal.com/) for all the support. Title taken from Joni Mitchell's "Chelsea Morning."


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